


thrill me, chill me (fulfil me)

by greyspilot



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Murder, No Way Around It, hand jobs in front of people about to be murdered, inspired by billy and stu in scream, murder as foreplay, not a lot of gore but theres guts so, sorry i can't tag, straight up murder, very light bdsm if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyspilot/pseuds/greyspilot
Summary: They got away with it. And they couldn't wait to get away with it again.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95
Collections: Horrorscopes, Round 2: Murder Boy/girl-friends





	thrill me, chill me (fulfil me)

**Author's Note:**

> Zodiac: Aries - The Infant  
> Themes used: cardinal // red // leading // naive
> 
> (title from Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me from The Rocky Horror Picture Show)

Everyone said that Billy would snap.

They all tried to warn him, told him to watch out, told him  _ be careful _ , _Billy’s damaged_. Well, _unhinged_ had been the word Nancy used, but she always had been a little dramatic (always had a bigger vocabulary, too).

Thing is,  _ everyone _ said that Billy would snap. So Steve shouldn’t have been surprised when he arrived at Billy’s house and everything was too quiet, too empty. Shouldn’t have been surprised when he followed the trail of broken plates and shattered glass into the backyard. Shouldn’t have been surprised to find Billy with a knife in his hands, a body in the shape of Neil Hargrove dead on the dirt at his feet.

And maybe, if he really let himself think about it, he  _ wasn’t  _ surprised. Not by the fact that Billy finally  _ had _ snapped, and not by the fact that Steve  _ liked  _ it.

He always did say Billy looked good in red.

And  _ Billy _ , well, Billy definitely wasn’t surprised when he saw Steve. A slow, almost predatory grin split across his face as he watched Steve watching him. Must’ve seen the way Steve’s eyes darkened as he raked his gaze down Billy’s blood-spattered chest, the welts on his biceps from where Neil had tried to fight back, the red of his hands, the way blood was still  _ drip, drip, dripping _ down the sharpened blade of the knife.

This kill was fresh. New. His  _ first _ .

A chill ran up Steve’s spine, at the thought that he was the first one _,_ the _only_ one, to see Billy like this. Feral. _Unhinged_. If he was being honest with himself, which at this point, he didn’t see any point in trying to lie, he would admit that he was just a little disappointed that he didn’t arrive earlier, that he’d missed the show.

But he knew Billy would make it up to him. Knew he’d get the chance to sit and watch and  _ enjoy. _ Because Nancy might have taught Steve some big words, but Billy was going to teach him so, _s_ _ o _ much more.

He felt a rush that made his knees weak, made him sway on his feet in a way Billy was always good at, when Billy turned to him, stepped over Neil’s body to make his way to Steve.

Billy painted Steve’s face red as he grabbed him, the cool of the knife a stark contrast to Steve’s flushed cheek, and pulled him in for a kiss that was all bite, all lust and aggression. And Steve melted into it, let Billy take control as he licked into Steve’s mouth, sucked on his tongue and bit his lower lip hard enough to make Steve flinch back. He felt a sharp sting at the edge of his cheekbone.

Steve smiled when Billy did too, moaned a little when he shoved a hand in Steve’s hair, yanked his head back and lapped up the blood. The hand in his hair gripped tighter, Billy shoved a knee between his thighs to spread his legs and rolled his hips.

“Like what you see, pretty boy?” Billy whispered against Steve’s skin.

“Yeah,” his breath was coming out in pants as Billy pressed the point of the knife softly to Steve’s chest, trailed it up, up, up along his sternum and used it to pop the buttons on his light blue polo. “Yeah, I like it, Bill.”

“ _Shit_ , Stevie, it felt so _good_. Gotta try it sometime, baby.”

And _fuck_ , Billy’s voice was so low and thick and Steve was so _curious_ , so fucking _hot_ under the collar, and he uttered the words without any hesitation.

“Then teach me.”

Billy smiled again, slow and so full of _want_ , and he dropped the knife in favour of dropping to his _knees_ for Steve. He removed Steve’s belt and pushed his chinos down to his thighs with the sort of finesse that only came with lots ( _lots_ ) of practice.

The sight of Billy, down on his knees, one bloody fist working Steve and the other shoved down the front of his own jeans, Neil’s body slumped on a patch of red dirt behind him, made Steve whimper. He grasped at golden locks, forced Billy to open up his pretty mouth and choke on him. And fuck if Billy didn’t love it, gasping for air around Steve’s cock as the head hit the back of his throat with relentless haste.

“Fuck, Billy,” Steve rasped, his head lolling back and his eyes closing. And it was hard to speak with the way perfect teeth scraped along the underside of his cock, the way Billy’s tongue soothed the burn, but he knew Billy liked it when he talked dirty. When Steve told him what he wanted. And Steve fucking’ _wanted_. “Wish I got to see. Wish I got to  _ watch _ ,  _ fuck _ . Y’know I love watching you. Like it when you put on a show for me. This one would’a been my favourite.”

Steve could still smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, Neil’s, Billy’s, _his own_ , could just about taste it. He thought about the way Neil must’ve screamed for him, like he’d made Billy wanna do so many times. Thought about the way the kitchen knife would’ve slashed through his throat like it was made of butter, the way his blood would look as it trickled onto Billy’s hands all thick and warm.

And it was that thought, the rush of Billy’s first kill, the excitement of a _second_ , of being the one to hold the knife that sends him over the edge and spilling down Billy’s throat. And Billy drank him down, chased his high and came in his hand with the pleasure of the kill, the thrill that he could’ve been caught, (could _s_ _ till  _ be caught, literally red-handed and with Steve’s pants down, because Neil’s body was right fuckin’ there and Susan and Max could be home any minute) still burning in the back of his mind.

“Let’s go get cleaned up, baby.” Billy said as he wiped red hands on blue denim and pushed himself up off of the dirt.

“What about him?” Steve asked, nodding behind Billy to the body. And Billy just smirked, flashed Steve that cocky grin, stuck out his tongue and waggled it in a lewd gesture that Steve _should_ be used to by bow buy still made his dick twitch.

Then there was a hand gripping the back of Steve’s head and pulling him in for a bruising kiss, and Steve couldn’t even seem to care that he was getting blood and cum in his hair (he’d get Billy to wash it for him later, anyway), not when Billy was nipping at his lips and sucking on his tongue.

“Wanna help me hide a body, pretty boy?”

And how could Steve say no? He couldn’t, not when Billy was looking at him like _that_ , eyes wild and smile all fuckin’ _feral_.

They rolled the body up in Billy’s sheets (one that he’d been meaning to get rid of for a while now, because Steve had been over a lot lately, and he was _lazy_ ) and threw him in the trunk of the Camaro.

It felt as though they drove for hours, windows down, Def Leopard up, screaming the lyrics as loud as they could while their lungs burned from the blunt they passed back and forth. (And if Steve reached over one too many times to palm at Billy, whose legs were spread as far as possible in the front seat, it’s not like Billy was complaining.)

Steve wasn’t sure where they ended up, only that it was dark when they arrived and it was the definition of _middle of nowhere_.

They buried him in pieces. Left him scattered in the ground limb by limb. And if Steve always thought that Billy looked good in red, he looked even better with his hair tied in a messy bun, curls falling in his sweat-slicked and blood-spattered face.

Steve never imagined Billy would look so good with a hacksaw.

(And if Billy bent Steve over the hood of the Camaro and fucked him right there, it’s not like Steve was complaining.)

The high from that kill kept them going for weeks after that. The usual dirty talk of _what do you wanna do to me, Bill_? became _tell me what you’d do to them_. Days that were spent at Steve’s house, in Steve’s bed, pressed up against any fuckin’ surface they could find.

But it wasn’t just the kill. No. It was that they didn’t get _caught_. They shoved all Neil’s shit in his car and drove it to a junkyard a few towns over, dumbed the plates at another. No one even _questioned_ the letter Billy forged, telling Susan goodbye and telling Max sorry. They got away with it.

And they couldn’t wait to get away with it again.

Steve supposed they were lucky. They didn’t have to wait long because John fuckin’ Harrington fell into their hands like a fly caught in a web.

He’d come home from a work trip early, nearly caught Steve on his knees while Billy lounged back on the sofa with his pants down. But they’d heard the door, righted themselves quick and John had only found two boys with messy hair and flushed faces.

His reeked of alcohol and perfume, a perfume that Steve had never smelled on his mother. His mother who, according to John’s near-incoherent mumbling, had left him for her yoga instructor.

Looking at his father now, well, Steve didn’t blame her.

“The fuck’s goin’ on here?” John had slurred when he finally noticed the boys.

“Nothing,” Steve replied too quickly. “Billy was just leaving.”

But John stood his ground, dropped his briefcase to the floor and blocked the front door.

“He’s not going anywhere until you tell the _truth_ for once,” he said, eyes narrowing and added as if mocking him: “Talk to your old man. Open up, _son_.”

Steve glanced at Billy beside him, cocked an eyebrow. It wasn’t until Billy replied with a silent, imperceptibly nod, that Steve stood and crossed the room to stand in front of his father.

“Fine,” he said, and he could hear Billy shifting too, could feel him coming to stand behind Steve like a guard dog. Steve’s heart hammered, but he knew he would be safe. Knew that Billy wouldn’t let anything happen to him and knew that soon enough, John would be dead and Billy would be cutting him into bits for Steve to bury, right before Billy buried himself in John’s picture-perfect son. “Billy’s my boyfriend.”

And Steve wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen next, but he wasn’t expecting John to _spit_ on him.

He took a step towards Steve, and maybe it was the alcohol slowing him down, but Billy was on him before his foot hit the floor.

“Get your faggot hands off me!” John cried, voice already straining because Billy had one arm around his neck and a hand on the back of his head and he wasn’t about to let up.

Billy wanted to _squeeze_ , tighter and tighter until he was begging Billy to let go, until he was gasping for air and his eyes bugged out of his face and his head burst like a melon in a vice.

But he didn’t. He _wouldn’t_. This one belonged to Steve.

He glanced up over Mr. Harrington’s shoulder to Steve. It was his turn to nod, to give permission.

The moment he did, Billy was pressing hard against his windpipe, stopping the breath from escaping as Mr. Harrington clawed at Billy’s arm.

And then he was out, eyes closing, breath slowing and going boneless in Billy’s grip. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked lifeless. But he did know better, knew Billy wouldn’t take this away from him, definitely wouldn’t let it happen so quick and so easy.

Billy wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to fear for his life the way Steve always feared his rejection.

They knew he’d be unconscious less than a minute so they moved quickly, Billy telling Steve _find something to tie him up for me, baby_ and dragging John Harrington to the kitchen. (Tiles are easier to clean than carpet, after all.)

Steve followed, taking a quick detour to grab a pair of red lace panties that Steve wasn’t sure belonged to his mother or his dad’s flavour of the week, and brushed past Billy on his way into the kitchen. He dug around in one of the drawers for the saran wrap, pulling off a length of it and twisting to form some sort of rope.

Billy was brutal in his movements, harsh and hasty as he pulled John’s arms behind the back of the chair and used the makeshift rope to tie his wrists together tight. The friction from the plastic was sure to burn his skin when he came to and inevitably struggled against his binds. The thought made Steve squirm as anticipation coiled deep in the pit of his stomach.

He grabbed a knife from the block on the bench, his favourite one. The kind that was long and thick in his hands, the kind he’d seen when he was fourteen and his parents were out and Psycho had been playing on the TV and he’d popped his first boner during the shower scene. He supposed he should’ve known then that maybe he wasn’t quite right, wasn’t quite _normal_. He didn’t mind though, because Billy was just as fucked up as he was and _fuck_ , it felt good.

Steve watched with a hungry gaze as Billy tied his ankles to the legs of the chair with a wicked grin on his face. He was excited, preparing for a show that he couldn’t wait to watch and Steve was the headliner, but this was just the opening act.

His fingers tightened around the knife and he rounded his father slow and steady and calculated, like a mountain lion circling its prey. He stood before him, shoved the panties in his mouth while he was still out so his screams wouldn’t draw any attention when he finally came to.

Steve’s knees trembled, his lower lip quivered. His fingers itched to _do something_.

The adrenaline was getting to him, coursing through his veins and burning like wildfire that only tamed when Billy pressed up against his back and slid warm, solid arms around his waist.

“You ready for this, pretty boy?” Billy murmured against his ear as the man in the chair began to stir.

Steve nodded, gulped down the lump that was forming in his throat as his father groaned and his eyelids fluttered open. He twisted the knife in his hand.

“Maybe,” he started, licked his lips as he looked back at BIlly, blinked those big brown doe eyes at him. “Maybe you could do it this time, and I can watch?”

Because he was excited, so, _so_ excited, but he was scared. Nervous. That he would do it wrong, wouldn’t be good enough for Billy like it’d been good for him.

And then Billy's mischievous tongue flicked at the shell of his ear, pearly white teeth nipped at his earlobe and Billy whispered, gruff and low in Steve’s ear: “Plenty of time for that later, baby. Tonight’s all about you.”

Hands pressed against his stomach, fingers splayed as they slid under the fabric of his soft pink sweater and one hand trailed up, up his chest to brush toy with his nipples while the other travelled lower, lower down past the hem of his khakis.

Billy was putting on a show now, getting Steve riled up while his father blinked awake, struggled against his restraints until the chair was rocking against the hard kitchen floor and he was screaming around the lace that was tickling the back of his throat.

“Okay,” Steve said with a nod, leaning back into Billy but keeping his eyes trained on his game. “But if I can’t finish it, you will, right Bill?”

“Anything for you, princess. You know that.”

Too suddenly Billy’s hands were gone and he was reaching forward for the gag and-

“No!” Steve stopped him, because he was excited and he _wanted_ but he was nervous. This was his first time and he knew he wasn’t as smart as Billy, wasn’t as careful, didn’t trust himself to not get caught in a lie if anyone heard anything. Didn’t trust himself not to change his mind. “I’m not ready to hear the screams, yet.”

Billy smiled like a devil, sinful and beguiling. “Oh, _baby_ , the screamin’s the best part. But we’ll get you there.”

Steve’s full of tremors, whole body practically vibrating as he takes the few steps forward, clutches the knife at his side. He can feel Billy’s eyes on him, can feel the way he’s watching, waiting, getting high from the wait and the rush and he wants to _watch_ , wants to _enjoy_.

_Will_ enjoy, even though Steve is new to this.

He breathes in deep, takes a steady breath. Gives John a once over and he thinks because this is his _first_ and it’s _important_ , because he wants to get it _right_ , make it _good_. So he thinks.

He pierce drive the knife into the soft skin of his neck, just below his jaw, let the blood redden his hands and use those bloodied fingers to mess up Billy’s blonde curls, like Billy had done to him that first time.

He could drive it through his chest, puncture the heart that Steve isn’t sure even exists, thinks maybe that’d finally get him to feel something.

But that was all too easy. It was letting him off clean when Steve wanted it _dirty_. Wanted his blood to pool on the tiles, wanted red to stain his hands and his knees when he got on the floor for Billy.

He wanted to make a fuckin’ _mess_ , because he never wanted the clean-cut image his parents forced upon him. Never wanted to strive for standards of perfection he knew he’d never be able to meet.

So he sucked in a sharp breath and plunged the knife into the soft skin right below his belly-button. It took a little bit of strength, a force that he wasn’t expecting to have to use, but once the blade tore through the muscle it sunk into his skin like it belonged there.

And John _screamed_ , screwed his eyes shut and cried out a smothered sound that sounded almost like Steve’s name.

His father hadn’t said his name in _years_.

‘ _Fuck you,_ ’ he thought, his grip around the handle of the knife unyielding, and-

“Open up, _dad_.” Steve spat the words like his father had spit on him, and then he yanked the knife up to slash through skin and bone.

Steve sliced him open until his insides were slipping out, slick and wet around the knife and Steve's hand, wrist, coating his forearm in crimson. (And if Steve’s dick kicked at the sight of his entrails bright red against the pure white of the kitchen floor, it’s only because they reminded him of the thick silk robes Billy sometimes used to tie him to the headboard.)

John died with a scream stuck in his throat and a sputter of blood.

And it was _over_ but it wasn’t _enough_. His hunger wasn’t satisfied, still burned deep and hot in the pit of his gut. He wanted to _destroy_ , to grab his bat from where it sat beside his bed and brutalise what was left of his father until there _was_ nothing left.

He realised he was shaking when calloused hands found his shoulders, grabbed him tight to pull him from his high and back down to earth.

“You did so _good_ , baby,” Billy muttered between kisses pressed to his neck. “Did it feel as good as you looked?”

His head fell back against Billy’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and he could feel Billy already hard against the curve of his ass. Steve released a shuddering sigh.

“Yeah,” he admitted, still sounding a little stuck on cloud-nine, blissed-out, “Yeah, but _fuck_ , Bill. I want it to _last_ next time. Wanna use the bat, make it fuckin’ _hurt_.”

Billy let out a small moan at that, the softest whimper as his hand came around to palm at Steve, as he rutted against him and dropped his forehead to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and blood and _lust_.

And Steve just smiled, bucked into Billy’s hand, let the knife drop to the floor with a clang and grabbed at Billy’s arms to paint him red.

Billy had always looked good in red, but apparently Steve did too.

“Next time,” he said, “I wanna hear the screams.”


End file.
